


Many Years Away

by cyankelpie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic, Emotionally abused Aziraphale, Established Relationship, Flustered Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gabriel is terrible, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Crowley, Semi-sentient Bentley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: (An attack from Gabriel robs Aziraphale of the last 87 years of his memories. Crowley tries to fill him in, but he can't possibly be telling the truth.)“You don’t remember…” Crowley twisted something on his own hand. He wore a silver band on the same finger as Aziraphale’s gold one, which couldn’t possibly mean— “Hang on.” Crowley knelt in front of him and took his hand, and Aziraphale’s breath caught again. Crowley watched him cautiously, as if afraid he might spook the angel, and slid the gold ring off his hand. “Look inside,” he said, placing the ring in Aziraphale’s palm. “Might—jog something.”Trying to swallow, Aziraphale examined the ring. There was an inscription inside.Our side.The demon searched his face pleadingly. “You don’t remember any of that?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 156
Kudos: 733
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. We're on Opposite Sides

**Author's Note:**

> *Slaps top of amnesia fic* This bad boy can fit so much angst in it.
> 
> This fic has, without exaggeration, eaten my entire weekend. I blacked out on Saturday and then came to on Sunday with a big pile of angst in front of me. Title is from '39, by Queen. Enjoy.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice reached him first. Aziraphale struggled to blink the fog out of his eyes, and then the demon’s face swam into view, very close to his own. Slitted yellow eyes looked into Aziraphale’s, and one hand cupped his face. Crowley’s _hand_ was on Aziraphale’s _face_.

“Cr—” he scrambled backwards and bumped into one of the bookshelves, breathing hard. That had certainly never happened before, and with good reason. A demon was not supposed to touch an angel’s face like that. Aziraphale cleared his throat and straightened his bow tie, trying to pretend it hadn’t happened and not doing a very good job. Crowley’s hand had been so warm.

“It’s alright,” said Crowley gently. “He’s gone. Did he hurt you?”

“Wh—” Aziraphale looked around helplessly. How had he gotten here? How had Crowley gotten here? “Whom do you mean?”

Crowley looked puzzled. “Gabriel.”

Aziraphale’s heart rate almost doubled. Gabriel was here? Had he seen Crowley? Oh, no, no, no…

“You don’t remember?” Crowley’s brow furrowed. “I heard screaming so I came downstairs, and he was—well, I’m not sure what he was doing, but it looked painful, so I grabbed the carving knife and shouted, ‘Get away from my husband!’—It was very badass, by the way, in case you were wondering—And I guess he wasn’t expecting—”

“Crow—Wh—” Aziraphale stuttered. The word “husband” flustered him even more than the hand on his face had done. He shut his eyes and swallowed. Crowley must have lost his mind. If Gabriel found out about the arrangement… “Why—why would you do that?”

“He was hurting you!” said Crowley. “And I’m your bloody knight in shining armor, aren’t I? S’what I do.”

Aziraphale’s face felt very warm. Crowley had said it so dismissively—It had to be a joke. He couldn’t actually know that Aziraphale really thought of him like that. He’d never told anyone. “G-Gabriel wouldn’t hurt me,” he stuttered.

“Wouldn’t hurt you?” Crowley repeated. “He tried to execute you!”

“What?” Aziraphale laughed, but it sounded high and strange in his ears. “Why would he do such a thing? Crowley—”

“The apocalypse?” Crowley was turning paler by the second. “You…don’t remember?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Aziraphale, his voice rising. “You’re not making any sense, Crowley. If this is one of your jokes—”

“Angel,” said Crowley, “what’s the last thing you do remember?”

Aziraphale realized for the first time that his head was very fuzzy. He remembered—dancing, yes. He’d learned how to dance, but then it had gone out of fashion. And there had been an awful war, and Crowley hadn’t been there, and it had been terribly lonely. And then there had been another war, and Crowley _had_ been there, and he had saved Aziraphale’s books—

“What year is it?” Crowley asked quietly.

Aziraphale thought a moment. Why was it so hard for him to remember the year? “Nineteen…forty-one?”

Crowley swallowed hard. “Aziraphale, it’s twenty twenty-nine.”

That…that was absurd. This had to be one of Crowley’s tricks. If the demon was sitting on the floor, looking absolutely heartbroken, well, that was just good acting, right? All this nonsense about an apocalypse and an execution certainly couldn’t—

“I’m gonna kill that bastard,” said Crowley, getting to his feet. “You still got that summoning circle under your rug? I’m going to _kill_ him.”

“Who—Gabriel? Don’t be ridiculous—” Aziraphale tried to stand and the world swayed around him. He grabbed for the bookshelf and missed. “Oh—”

Crowley was there in an instant to catch him. “Careful, there, angel. Let’s get you to the sofa.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched. Crowley was so _close_ to him, and he acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. He stuttered something that might have been, “Yes, jolly good,” as Crowley guided him to the sofa and set him down on the cushions. None of this was making sense, and it wasn’t helping his thought processes that Crowley kept touching him. His hands fidgeted, itching for something hold onto. He reached for the pinky ring he often fiddled with and his hand brushed something else.

There was a plain gold band on his ring finger.

His heart stopped for a moment. That couldn’t—no. Definitely not.

“Get you some cocoa,” said Crowley, retreating into the kitchen. How did he know Aziraphale had just been thinking about something warm to drink? And how did he know exactly where Aziraphale kept it? He’d always made his own cocoa. For that matter…

“What were you doing here, Crowley?” He didn’t remember the demon coming in. The last concrete thing he could remember was drinking a lot of wine by himself in this room and then passing out. He hadn’t known what else to do after the revelation that had come to him at the church. And when he woke up, there were no empty bottles strewn across the floor, and no trace of a hangover, and Crowley had been touching Aziraphale’s face.

Crowley stuck his head into the room. He had a pained expression on his face. “Aziraphale, I live here.”

“Wh—” Aziraphale gave a small laugh. “Where do I live, then?”

They could not possibly be living together. An angel and a demon—It was absurd. Totally unheard of, not to mention extremely dangerous. That had been illustrated quite recently when Gabriel had shown up, and apparently learned all about their arrangement when Crowley had seen fit to run straight into the room and call Aziraphale his—his—

“You don’t remember…” Crowley twisted something on his own hand. He wore a silver band on the same finger as Aziraphale’s gold one, which couldn’t possibly mean— “Hang on.” Crowley knelt in front of him and took his hand, and Aziraphale’s breath caught again. He and Crowley touched so rarely, and this would be the third time in a span of minutes. Crowley watched him cautiously, as if afraid he might spook the angel, and slid the gold ring off his hand. “Look inside,” he said, placing the ring in Aziraphale’s palm. “Might—jog something.”

Trying to swallow, Aziraphale examined the ring. There was an inscription inside. _Our side._

The demon searched his face pleadingly. “You don’t remember any of that?”

Aziraphale made a high, squeaky noise. His heart felt like it was running a marathon. If this was all true, if he really had lost the past century of his life and he and Crowley did live together, if they were—were married—

It was impossible. He couldn’t believe it. (He wanted to.) He couldn’t.

He closed his hand over the ring. It was easier to think when it was out of sight. “Crowley,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “Would you please tell me what’s going on here?”

Crowley stood up, pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket, and put them on. It did not hide his crushed expression. “Right. I’ll—I’ll have to catch you up, I guess. Bound to be a bit of a shock. Um—Cocoa first.”

Aziraphale tried and failed to calm himself as Crowley went back into the kitchen. His head reeled. He looked around the bookshop to ground himself. That, at least, was still familiar. Although, now that he looked, it was not quite exactly the same. Things had been rearranged and reorganized, a number of plants had been placed around the windows, and there was a large collection of brightly colored books in one corner that he was certain he hadn’t owned before. But, if it really had been a century, surely more would have changed.

Crowley came back with a mug of cocoa. He looked for a moment like he was going to set it directly into Aziraphale’s hands, then rethought it and put it on the side table instead. Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that he didn’t get to touch Crowley’s hands again. But that was—that was dangerous, of course. He shouldn’t think such things. They were on opposite sides.

“Ready?” asked Crowley, sitting in the chair across from him. He perched on the edge, tense as a guitar string. “It’s going to be a lot.”

Aziraphale sipped the cocoa (and how did Crowley know just how he liked it, with exactly the right number of marshmallows?) and nodded. Whatever Crowley was going to tell him could not possibly be more overwhelming than him claiming they were married.

He was wrong. Aziraphale barely managed to hold on to his mug the entire time Crowley talked. He had done what? Holy water? What on Earth had he been thinking? Crowley had talked him into trying to avert the apocalypse? And it had actually worked?

“Angel?” Crowley asked, after describing the showdown at the airbase. He kept stopping to check in with Aziraphale, to see how he was handling it and whether the shock was too much. (Of course the shock was too much. It had been too much from the moment he woke up with Crowley’s hand on his face.)

Aziraphale cleared his throat. There were so many things he didn’t understand. “Why?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “If we knew where the antichrist was, I could have just alerted heaven, and they would have…”

He trailed off. Crowley was looking at him with pity. “You tried. You tried so hard, Aziraphale. They didn’t listen. They only wanted to win the war.”

But—No. Heaven wouldn’t just let humanity die. They wouldn’t. Aziraphale had his doubts about a few of the angels he worked with, and had been known to say a few choice words about Gabriel when he was inebriated, but they didn’t represent heaven as a whole. “I don’t believe you.”

Crowley slumped back in the chair. “Course you don’t.” He sounded bitter. “You didn’t believe me then, either. I bet this is what Gabriel wanted. Erased your memories of doubting heaven, so you’d become their loyal servant again—”

“No.” Aziraphale clutched his head. “They wouldn’t—heaven would never do such things. We’re the good guys.”

Crowley flinched a little at the word “we.” “Angel, they _did_.”

“No!” The mug shook in his grasp. “Crowley—Why would you say this? Are you—” His eyes widened. “Are you trying to lead me into doubt?”

“I’m just telling you the truth.”

“You’re trying to drive me away from heaven,” he said, and suddenly everything made much more sense. This whole scenario had been set up by Crowley. If it had worked, if Aziraphale believed him and started living with him as if they were married, he would have fallen for sure. Well, it was a good thing he had more faith than that, and more sense than to trust the word of a demon.

“You really think that?” asked Crowley in disbelief. “It’s easier for you to believe that I made all this up—” he waved his arms around to indicate, well, everything, “—than to believe your boss is kind of an asshole?”

Some deeply-rooted part of him knew that Crowley would never lie to him like this. Another part of him whispered that that was exactly what the demon wanted him to think. For a moment, he didn’t answer.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, as if he had read the angel’s mind. “Please believe me.”

“Why?” asked Aziraphale, and it was a genuine question. Nothing was making sense, and all of this sounded too fantastic to be true, and it was coming from a demon. From Crowley—but he was still a demon.

Crowley took off his sunglasses and looked at Aziraphale. “I love you,” he said. “Tell me you remember that much, at least.”

Aziraphale’s heart stopped. He couldn’t look at Crowley. He _did_ know that. If he was honest with himself, he had always known it. But Aziraphale was not very often honest with himself. They couldn’t be having this conversation. Angels and demons did not love each other. “Y-you’re a demon, Crowley,” he said, hating himself for saying it, but knowing he’d probably still hate himself if he didn’t say it. “You don’t know what that means.”

He thought Crowley might get angry. That would have been easier. Instead, he just looked sad, but not surprised, as he put his sunglasses back on. “Right,” he said dully. “I can tell you the rest later. I—I’ll give you some space.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything as Crowley got up and walked to the door. He felt like he ought to. But he didn’t.

Crowley turned with one hand on the doorknob. “I will find a way to fix this,” he promised. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll get your memories back.”

Aziraphale still didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the energy for speech right now. And what could he say? That whatever was wrong clearly had nothing to do with him? Crowley was the one convinced that they were married. Crowley was the one who thought heaven would sit idly by and let the Earth be destroyed. If anything, he ought to be more worried about himself than Aziraphale.

The door shut behind Crowley. Aziraphale set down his mug, and something fell out of his hand and clattered onto the table. He jumped. It was the ring. He had forgotten that he’d been holding it the entire time. He picked it up. What should he do with it? Get rid of it? The thought made his throat clench. It was a ruse, wasn’t it?—But the words “our side” felt so _right_ —

He fiddled with it thoughtlessly and jumped when he realized that he was halfway through putting it back on. No, that—that wouldn’t do. They weren’t really married, right? They couldn’t be. It was impossible. Blasphemous.

He tucked the ring into his waistcoat pocket. He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it, but if he kept it on his hand where he could see it, he might go mad. With it out of sight, he wouldn’t have to be reminded how much he wished it were true.

The Bentley started playing “It’s a Hard Life” as soon as Crowley turned the key. “Not helpful,” said Crowley. “Read the room, could you?”

The Bentley switched to “Nevermore,” and Crowley groaned, “Oh, you’re no use at all.” He pulled away from the curb and drew a shaky breath. Alright, so Aziraphale had forgotten roughly ninety years. Stopping the apocalypse. Learning to doubt heaven. His relationship with Crowley—All of it, gone. Like it had never happened. Except for the wedding band, which Crowley noticed he had not put back on after Crowley took it off to show him what was written inside. Not that it had mattered, because he hadn’t remembered any of that, either.

If that hadn’t jogged his memory, Crowley didn’t know what would. Maybe nothing would. Maybe they would really have to start over. They could get back to where they were eventually, right? Once Aziraphale realized that orders were not coming in from heaven anymore, he’d have to believe Crowley. Unless Gabriel actually did start sending orders. He drew a sharp breath. Or if Gabriel came back to finish what he had started.

Crowley turned at the next intersection. He had said he was going to give Aziraphale space, but there was no way in hell or heaven that he was going to leave him open to another attack from Gabriel. They had been lucky this time that Crowley had been able to intervene. If Gabriel came by the shop again, and Crowley wasn’t there to stop him, that would be it for Aziraphale. He’d lose everything, all the way back to Eden. He’d forget he had given away the flaming sword. He’d forget ever meeting Crowley.

Crowley circled the block and drove past the bookshop again. He felt sick. He needed a drink, but how was he going to protect Aziraphale if he was hammered? And how was he going to come up with a plan? He had told Aziraphale he’d get his memories back, but he didn’t have the first idea how to start. Maybe if the angel was presented with enough evidence, the pieces would fall into place? He supposed it was possible that Aziraphale did remember some things, but was too far in denial to admit that to Crowley. He had been like that, before. Maybe Crowley could bring some of their old friends by, from the apocalypse days. Try to bring back those memories first. Warlock, or Anathema, or Adam—

“Adam,” he said, snapping his fingers. He’d always known that having the antichrist’s phone number would come in handy. He scrambled for his phone and found Adam’s number. “Quiet down, would you?” he hissed at the Bentley, which had switched to “Save Me.” Nothing happened. He just shut off the car instead and dialed the number.

“Adam?” he said, as soon as the dial tone stopped.

“Hi, Crowley,” said the boy. Well, he was hardly a boy anymore. He was in college now, the clever lad, studying something to do with the environment. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. How are you? How’s Aziraphale?”

Crowley swallowed hard at Aziraphale’s name. “He’s—Well, I’m fine—Aziraphale’s—” He drew a breath to try to collect himself. “He doesn’t remember me.” He had thought it would be easier to say. “Well—He remembers _me_ ,” he amended. “But not—He’s lost the past ninety years. His bastard boss tried to wipe his memory. He thinks we’re still enemies.” His voice cracked.

Adam was quiet for a moment. “Oh.”

“Can you do anything?” Crowley held his breath, waiting hopefully. He had seen Adam face down Satan himself and send him back to the bottomless pit where he came from. Surely he’d be able to—

“I haven’t been the antichrist for a long time,” said Adam. “I don’t have any powers anymore. I’m just a guy.”

Crowley’s chest shattered. He had forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe Anathema knows something to help?”

Crowley blinked away tears. He doubted it. If Crowley couldn’t do anything, and he was an actual demon—

He blinked. He hadn’t actually tried to do anything.

“Maybe,” he said, his mind racing. “I’ll check. Thanks, Adam.” He hung up. Somebody, he was an idiot. If Gabriel could wipe memories, why shouldn’t Crowley be able to restore them? Their powers were similar enough. He could try, at least. Or…could he?

He looked up at the shop door. Aziraphale probably did not want to see him right now. He had barely been gone for twenty minutes. But he needed to talk to the angel somehow. He pulled out his phone, drew a ragged breath, and dialed the number of the bookshop.

Aziraphale picked up, thank Somebody. “Hello?”

“Hi,” said Crowley. “S’me.”

“Oh—Um. Hello, Crowley.”

Crowley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I had a thought,” he started. “I could maybe try…miracling back your memories.”

There was a pause. “Are you asking me,” said Aziraphale slowly, “to allow you to go rooting around in my head and planting memories there?”

Crowley cringed. He hadn’t thought about it like that. “I’m not gonna fill your head with lies, angel—”

“Why not? You’ve been trying that all afternoon.” Aziraphale’s voice rose. “I will _not_ allow a demon to go poking around inside my head. It is out of the question.”

“Right,” Crowley sighed with resignation. That ruled out that option, then. He wasn’t even surprised. This was just what Aziraphale had been like before the apocalypse. He’d always resisted anything Crowley suggested or asked for. Except this time, Crowley was asking for a bit more than a few minor temptings in Edinburgh. “Just thought I’d ask.”

“Um—Another thing.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “There are quite a few of your things in the flat above the shop. And rather a lot of plants.”

Crowley’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He’d been afraid of this. “Are you asking me to move out?”

“Well, I—I don’t even remember you moving _in_ , Crowley.”

It would be a little much for Aziraphale to handle, that was true. He’d just found out heaven had branded him as a traitor and that he was married to a demon. That was enough to process without said demon living under the same roof. It was the very definition of too fast, and Crowley had had said he would give Aziraphale space. But—He didn’t want to move out completely. He was going to come back, right?

“Could I—could I keep some of it there?” he asked. “Till I find a new place. Nowhere to put the plants, you know.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

“Alright,” said Crowley. “I’ll come by in a bit with a suitcase. Get some of the basics out of your way.”

“Okay. I’ll, um, see you then.”

Crowley hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. He didn’t have anywhere else to go. Should he start looking for a flat?

No, this was temporary, right? He’d figure something out before long. And he still had the Bentley, at least. A few nights sleeping in his car wouldn’t kill him.


	2. What's a Computer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, even though he's lost 87 years, Aziraphale's fashion choices and understanding of technology are still just as outdated as before, and I love that about him.

Aziraphale hung up and rubbed his forehead. This was all giving him a dreadful headache. He felt terrible talking to Crowley like this. But he shouldn’t, right? They were meant to be enemies. But they also very much weren’t.

He returned to the main part of the shop to find a customer sitting in one of the chairs he kept around the shop and reading a book that was, luckily for her, not one of Aziraphale’s precious first editions. She looked up as he returned and gave him a sympathetic look. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she asked, “but are you and your Anthony going through a rough patch?”

Aziraphale jumped at the phrase “your Anthony,” and one hand flew to his chest. “I—I beg your pardon?” he said, trying to stay composed.

She looked down at his hand, where his ring used to be, and her frown deepened. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said, even though Aziraphale had not answered her question. “You two were always so solid. Made the rest of us believe in love.”

Aziraphale was quite certain he had never met this woman before in his life. “I don’t think my personal life is any of your concern,” he said, a bit coldly. “Now, is there anything I can help you with?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Fell. I didn’t mean to pry—”

“Is there a book you would like me to help you find?” Aziraphale asked, in his most customer-deterrent tone.

She got the hint and shut the book she had been reading. “I should be going anyway. See you another time, Mr. Fell.”

“Good day,” said Aziraphale firmly. She left, and he let out a deep breath. It was one thing to have Crowley tell him they were together, but to hear it from a stranger…

An idea struck him, and he ran to the door an opened it before the woman could walk too far. “Pardon me,” he asked, “but could you tell me the date?”

She blinked at him. “It’s, er, March fourth.”

“Yes, and the year?”

He must have sounded absolutely mad. She gave him a wary look before answering, “2029.”

The same year Crowley had said. He thanked her and ducked back inside. So he really had forgotten nearly a century of his life. That part was true. But the rest of it—The rest of it was still outrageous, wasn’t it?

He had some catching up to do. Resolved, he put on his hat and coat, left a note on the table in case Crowley should stop by, and stepped outside to go to the library.

Crowley knocked first before he went into the bookshop, which he had never done, not even before Armageddon. There was no answer, so he opened the door and stepped inside. “Angel?” Nothing. His heartbeat quickened. He had only been gone for about fifteen minutes to go find a suitcase. If Gabriel had already come back in that time—

He stopped when he saw the note. It was in Aziraphale’s handwriting, but that didn’t mean he was safe. Crowley dropped his suitcase and ran back outside to the Bentley.

“You’d better stop it with the sad music,” he snapped as he started the car. Something more cheerful started up, and Crowley relaxed a little. He hadn’t expected it to actually work. He rocketed away from the curb, zipped down the road at life-threatening speeds, and then realized that the song was about time dilation, and space travelers who returned to Earth to find that all their loved ones were dead. _Oh, so many years are gone, though I’m older but a year…_

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He’d always said Queen had a song for every occasion, but this really wasn’t the sort of thing he had in mind. “Can’t you play something else?” he begged. “Do ‘I’m in Love with my Car.’ You love that one.” Instead, she started playing “Living on My Own.” “That’s not even technically Queen!” Crowley cried. The car didn’t respond, but at least after that she stopped pulling from Freddie’s solo albums.

“Blasted car,” he muttered, screeching to a stop outside the library and shutting it off the moment the speedometer hit zero. Being angry at the Bentley at least gave him something to focus on besides the current situation. What would he find in the library? Would Aziraphale still remember him at all? Or had the note been a ruse to misdirect him, and was his angel already back in heaven, receiving his new orders?

He burst into the library with all the frantic, undirected energy of a baking soda volcano. “You,” he said, pointing at one of the librarians behind the desk. “Have you seen a man come in here, ‘bout this tall, fluffy white hair, horribly outdated fashion sense—”

“Crowley!”

He turned to see the angel was hurrying towards him with a familiar disapproving expression. Crowley sighed in relief. Everything was fine, then. Aziraphale had actually just up and decided to visit the library. No archangels here at all.

“Crowley, you can’t just burst in here and start shouting,” Aziraphale hissed in a near-whisper. “This is a library.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Crowley. “Next time I’ll be sure to walk in and ask _quietly_ whether anyone’s seen an amnesiac possible-kidnapping-victim.”

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s arm and pulled him outside. “Terribly sorry about my friend,” he told the librarians, shooting another glare at Crowley. “He won’t be coming back.”

_Friend._ Something twisted in Crowley’s heart. Just yesterday, Aziraphale had been proud to call him husband. He was kind of insufferable about it, actually. Kept bringing up the word when it was scarcely relevant. It was adorable. Now, though…Well, at least he hadn’t said “fraternizing.”

“Why are you here?” Aziraphale asked, depositing him once they were outside.

“I went hom—um—went by the shop,” he started. “Saw your note. You said you were here.”

“I wasn’t asking you to follow me!”

“Yeah, well—” He had a point. If Crowley was going to stalk him, he should at least have the decency to be subtle about it. “Look, I—I said I’d give you space, and I’m not gonna bother you, but I also won’t go far. Not as long as Gabriel could come back and finish the job.”

“That’s entirely unnecessary,” said Aziraphale. “I’m quite certain Gabriel would not—”

“He _did,_ Aziraphale. You—you must’ve figured out you’re missing some years, even if you didn’t believe me. I’m not losing the rest of you.”

He was standing too close. Aziraphale backed up, hands fluttering. He still wasn’t wearing the ring. “All right,” he said at last. “All right, I don’t want to argue with you, and if it will make you feel better—”

Crowley relaxed. “I’ll stay out of your way, if you want,” he said. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

He half-hoped Aziraphale would say something to indicate that he did want to know that Crowley was there. He didn’t.

“What did you want at the library, anyway?” said Crowley. “Not enough books for you at home?”

“I was catching up on the news,” said Aziraphale. “I never did learn how World War II ended.”

“You could just look it up online, angel.”

Aziraphale frowned. “On what line?”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “The internet? Computers?” The angel continued to look at him in blank confusion. Oh, he had missed so much. In spite of everything, Crowley grinned. “Boy, are you in for a time. I can show you. It’s right here on my phone, see—Oh, yeah, this is what phones look like now.”

Aziraphale blinked at the black rectangle, puzzled. “Where is the dial? And the cord?”

“There isn’t one.” Crowley unlocked the screen. “Genius, right? And look at this.” He opened YouTube, searched “ducklings,” and tapped the first video that popped up. Cute animal videos were the second-fastest way to make Aziraphale smile, after desserts.

“Oh.” Sure enough, his eyes softened the instant Crowley held up the phone. One hand went to his chest. “Oh, the dear little things. They’re so small…”

That smile was like a soothing balm. Relief flooded Crowley, and he grinned as well.

The angel looked up at him, shook himself out of it, and cleared his throat. His eyes flitted away. “I’m afraid I don’t understand how that’s a phone.”

Crowley’s smile faded. He’d have to keep his facial expressions in check better. Aziraphale wasn’t used to him openly smiling at him like that. “Yeah, it makes calls, and everything,” he said. “Oh, the internet—” He pulled up a browser. “This is—Well, it’s like—” Realizing he didn’t know how to describe the internet, he googled “the internet” and opened the relevant Wikipedia article. “You can find all sorts of stuff on here,” he said, handing it to Aziraphale. “Scroll like this, and you can also zoom…”

Aziraphale’s eyes were very wide, but he was handling this much better than everything Crowley had told him earlier. “You mean I can search for anything?” He accidentally hit the lock button and jumped when the screen went black. “Oh no—I’ve killed it—”

“No, you just turned it off. Press the button on the side. The passcode’s four sixes.”

“Of course it is.”

Crowley watched over Aziraphale’s shoulder as he unlocked the phone, went to the search bar, and typed, “Tell me everything that has happened since 1941, please.”

“That’s not gonna get you any helpful answers,” said Crowley, reaching down to take the phone. “Here, let me just—”

Aziraphale stiffened as Crowely touched his hands to take the phone. He was standing too close again. “Sssorry,” he hissed, drawing back. Too much, just like the old days. Too fast. Just this morning, Aziraphale had kissed his forehead and called him “dearest” while Crowley lay curled up against him in bed, and now the smallest touch made him flinch. “Just, um…search something like ‘timeline of world events.’ That’ll get you closer.”

“Th-thank you.” Aziraphale fixed his eyes firmly on the phone. Was Crowley imagining it, or was he a little pink? Did that mean that he remembered having feelings for Crowley, even if he didn’t remember being married to him? He had told Crowley once that he’d been in love for a long time, though he’d only realized it in the nineteen forties. Shit, what year had Aziraphale thought it was?

“I don’t suppose I could borrow this?” Aziraphale looked up at him, but only for a fraction of a second.

“You’ve got one at home,” said Crowley. “I can help you find it, if you want.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I—I think I can find it myself,” he said. “Thank you. I’m—I’m sorry, Crowley.”

It sounded hard for him to say. Crowley couldn’t recall him ever apologizing like that before the apocalypse. Even when he gave Crowley the holy water and told him he went too fast, it had been “don’t look so disappointed.” Crowley must look truly miserable. “You don’t, um,” said Crowley, very eloquently. “W-what for?”

“I’m not trying to—to hurt you,” said Aziraphale, still barely looking at him. It really was like old times. “I’m not, but—This is all so confusing.”

Crowley couldn’t even imagine what he was going through. He still thought Heaven was nice. “Yeah, no, I get it,” he said, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. “Take all the time you need.” Crowley was nothing if not patient, at least when it came to Aziraphale.

“I must ask. Are you certain…” Aziraphale hesitated. “Are you quite certain it’s only my memory that’s been tampered with?”

He froze. Was he saying—No, he couldn’t. “What?”

“I just mean,” said Aziraphale, “you remember events that, quite frankly, seem a little outlandish. Is it possible that perhaps—”

“ _No_.” Crowley couldn’t believe this. It was one thing to think he had been lying—And he supposed he should be grateful that Aziraphale had moved past that, at least—but did it really make more sense to Aziraphale that Crowley’s memory was faulty as well than that they were actually married? How many more excuses was he going to come up with before he believed Crowley?

“I’m just saying it’s possible,” said Aziraphale carefully. “I don’t mean to—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested—”

“Is it all so hard to believe?”

Of course it was. He realized it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. This wasn’t the Aziraphale who had stopped Armageddon with him, it was the Aziraphale who had kept him at arms’ length for millennia out of fear. He probably couldn’t imagine defying heaven, much less living to tell the tale. He definitely couldn’t imagine openly being in a relationship with a demon.

“I—I don’t know,” Aziraphale stuttered. “I’m still trying to make sense of all this.” His hands would not stop moving, and neither would his eyes, and he looked like he might bolt at a moment’s notice. Crowley hated seeing Aziraphale like this. For so much of his life, heaven had worked him into a tight ball of anxiety and repression. He hadn’t been like this in years.

Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets, because he didn’t know what else to do with them. This was his _husband_. Crowley was supposed to be able to hold him and tell him it was going to be okay without sending him into a panic attack. But right now, his only option was to wait and hope Aziraphale got there by himself. “Right,” he said dully. “You want a lift home?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, thank you. I’d like to spend a little more time here, I think.”

Crowley nodded. “Makes sense. You and your books.” He cleared his throat. “Well, not yours, I guess. Those are back h—back at the shop.”

Aziraphale looked terribly concerned. “Drive safely.”

“You know I don’t,” Crowley shot back, turning to go back to the Bentley. He wanted to remind the angel, once again, that he loved him. But that would only make him uncomfortable, and besides, he didn’t even believe Crowley. He didn’t believe that Crowley loved him. Crowley, who had been in love with him for as long as he could remember. He got in the car, shut the door, and drew a deep breath. Aziraphale, his husband of nine years and the love of his life for six thousand, did not believe that Crowley was capable of love. He sank forward against the steering wheel.

Then his head popped up. Aziraphale had told him to drive safely. He knew that Crowley had driven here. Did he remember the Bentley? Crowley racked his brains. Aziraphale and the Bentley had first been introduced the night that Crowley stupidly tried to walk into a church, and Aziraphale had forgotten to save his own books. Wasn’t that when he’d said he knew he loved Crowley?

He switched on the car, and “Breakthru” started playing. “That’s more like it,” he said, and peeled out of the lot. Aziraphale might still remember that he loved Crowley. There was still hope.


	3. Quite Extraordinary Amounts of Alcohol

Crowley was not lying. Of that, Aziraphale was certain. It had taken him much too long to accept that Crowley would never lie to him about something so serious, and that he was not capable of faking that brokenhearted expression. And even if he did cross boundaries sometimes, he really was trying not to make Aziraphale uncomfortable. So then, he wasn’t lying about them being…in a relationship.

That didn’t mean it was true, it just meant that Crowley believed it. Something strange had already happened to Aziraphale’s memory, so it wasn’t impossible that Crowley’s might have been altered as well. Aziraphale had suspected for quite a while that Crowley felt something deeper than friendship for him, and after the incident in the church, he couldn’t deny it any longer. Perhaps the demon had simply convinced himself of what he wished were the truth. Aziraphale just wished—for Crowley’s sake, obviously—that he could believe the same.

But it was so far-fetched. Even setting aside the marriage between an angel and a demon, he couldn’t bring himself to believe the things Crowley had said about heaven. He couldn’t believe that _he_ had ever believed those things. Gabriel wasn’t cruel. He could be hard to deal with, certainly, but if the Earth was about to be destroyed and Gabriel knew how to stop it, of course he would step in. As would Aziraphale. As would all angels.

Crowley was so firmly convinced, though. Well, it made sense. He had been cast out of heaven, after all—Aziraphale cut short this line of thinking as he always did. Crowley was Fallen. That was simple reality. It wasn’t worth questioning why.

He didn’t know what to make of any of this, and there wasn’t anyone else he could talk to. He had never had many close human friends, and any that he might have had in the forties were no longer around. And it wasn’t as if he could summon Gabriel for a quick chat. So, for the first time in a long time, he tried praying.

“Hello,” he started. That didn’t sound quite right. “Sorry, I’m terribly out of practice—Hello, Almighty Lord, who art in heaven,” he tried again. Was that too formal? Could one be too formal when addressing the Almighty? “It’s me, Aziraphale. Principality. I’m—sure you remember.” He swallowed, hoping the Almighty did not remember, at least as far as the business with the flaming sword was concerned. “I’m afraid I’m terribly confused right now,” he admitted. “I seem to have lost some of my memories. Important ones, perhaps. Um…” He swallowed, wondering whether he ought to mention Crowley. Probably not. “I don’t suppose you could provide some clarity?”

He waited, but received no flash of insight. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen. Actually, now that he considered it, there was something odd about the whole idea of asking God for clarity about whether or not he had abandoned heaven to live with a demon. It seemed like a conflict of interest.

“Well, I just thought I’d ask,” he said. “Anyway, your will be done, and deliver us from evil, and all that. Cheerio. I mean, er, amen.”

He didn’t feel any better afterwards. If anything, he felt worse. Why did he have to go and fall in love with a demon? Why did Crowley have to be so terribly charming and kind? He considered, several times, whether he ought to do what he did last time he had felt this conflicted, and just drink himself into oblivion. He would have, except that he didn’t know what he might do when he was drunk.

He found his mobile phone, and distracted himself by trying to figure out how to use it. It took him ages to figure out the passcode (which, for some reason, matched Crowley’s). Then, once he got the hang of touchscreens, he had to figure out what all those tiny icons were, and what was meant by “apps,” and how to communicate with this strange entity called the internet, which responded much better to rude, brief phrases than politely-worded requests. He could have just asked Crowley for help, he supposed, but every conversation he had with Crowley set him back on the calming-down-and-figuring-this-out front. Not that he had made much progress to begin with.

He was fiddling with his phone three days after the whole fiasco had started when suddenly it started to buzz in his hands. He dropped it in shock. It had never done that before. He wondered what it wanted.

“Adam Young” was printed in large text on the screen, above two icons of what looked like telephones. Crowley had mentioned that this device could make calls like the telephones Aziraphale was used to. Was someone calling him? Adam Young—He knew that name. Wasn’t that the young antichrist Crowley had told him about?

He fiddled with the screen until something on the display changed. “Hello?” said a very small voice out of the speaker. “Aziraphale?”

He held it up cautiously to his ear. “Adam?”

“Hey,” he said, sounding relieved. “You know who I am?”

It really was like a telephone. Remarkable. “I believe so. The, er, antichrist, right?”

“That’s right!” he sounded more excited than Aziraphale would have expected to be called the antichrist. “Is your memory coming back, then? Crowley told me—”

“Oh—No,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sorry, dear boy. Your name was on the phone. I’m afraid I still have no recollection of the past century.”

“Oh.” Adam’s voice fell. “Sorry to hear that. Anything I can help you fill in?”

Aziraphale’s heartbeat sounded very loud. This would be perfect. He should have thought of asking their other friends sooner. “Yes, in fact.” He lowered his voice, though he wasn’t sure why. The shop was empty at the moment. “Um…Crowley and I, were we actually…together?”

He didn’t know how he wanted Adam to answer that question. (He did know.) He wasn’t sure what he would do with either answer.

“Yeah,” said Adam, sounding surprised. “Yeah, I thought—I sort of thought you guys went way back.”

“We do, in a manner of speaking,” said Aziraphale, still speaking in a near-whisper. “As acquaintances. But I rather meant as—as a couple.” He choked a little as he said it. That wasn’t something he had ever expected to say out loud.

“That’s what I meant.” Adam paused. “You mean you guys only got together recently?”

Aziraphale didn’t know when they had “gotten together.” Crowley hadn’t mentioned it when he told Aziraphale everything he’d missed, and it didn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d skip. Maybe he hadn’t gotten that far. Aziraphale had stopped him when he reached the end of Armageddon.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time someone had mistaken him and Crowley for a couple. He fingered the ring in his waistcoat pocket. “Do you know,” he asked, “when—or if—we got m-married?”

Adam paused for a minute. “Weren’t you always?”

Aziraphale rubbed his forehead. So this conversation was inconclusive. Adam apparently had the impression that Aziraphale and Crowley had been an item since the beginning of time, which was inaccurate in itself. They were an _angel_ and a _demon._ They didn’t—

His eyes widened. They had gone out for oysters as early as 41 A.D. They went to plays together at the Globe. They—they got lunch and dinner together all the time, they met up at parks to chat—Had they been dating this whole time?

“Anything else?” Adam asked. “Can’t help much with anything before Armageddon’t, but any questions about after?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Do I still work for heaven?” he blurted out. He should have asked that before the thing about Crowley. That was much more important.

“No,” said Adam. “You always called yourself a retired angel.”

He blinked. That wasn’t the answer he had expected at all. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You couldn’t have misunderstood, perhaps?”

“No, you were pretty clear,” said Adam. “You always corrected anyone who called you an angel, without the retired part. You were very proud of it.”

Aziraphale still couldn’t quite believe him. He had thought Crowley and Aziraphale had been married for centuries, after all. “Is there anyone else I might call, who was there at Armageddon? Anyone we kept in touch with?”

“Sure,” said Adam cheerfully. “Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale might be able to help. Also Anathema, Newt, Sergeant Shadwell, though I don’t know how much help he’ll be, and Madame Tracy. That’s everyone who was there at the air base.”

Aziraphale grabbed a pen and scribbled these names down. “Wonderful. Thank you so much, Adam.” He capped the pen and set it aside. For the antichrist, Adam seemed like a very nice boy.

“No problem,” said Adam. “Let me know if I can help with anything else. Oh, is Crowley there?”

Aziraphale looked around the empty shop. Crowley had taken his suitcase and left three days ago. Aziraphale hadn’t seen the demon since.

“H-he’s just popped out for a bit,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Maybe try his cell?”

“Alright. Well, it wasn’t pressing. Just wanted to say hi.”

“I’ll—I’ll pass along the message.”

“Thanks, Aziraphale,” said Adam. “Hope you remember stuff soon.”

“Me too, my dear boy.”

Crowley was very, very drunk.

Okay, yeah, he was pretty much useless to Aziraphale in this state. If Gabriel happened to come by, it would take Crowley as long to sober up as it would take Gabriel to go inside and wipe the rest of Aziraphale’s memories. But, on the other hand, he hadn’t had a drink in days, and how was he supposed to keep that up with everything that had happened?

It had been a terrible three days. He had barely slept, for a start, and he had stepped outside of the Bentley even less. It was cold at night, so he turned on the car to use the heater, but then she insisted on playing sad Queen songs just in case he had forgotten how tragic it all was. As if spending the night in his car in direct sight of his home wasn’t enough of a reminder.

If Aziraphale had noticed the Bentley sitting there, he hadn’t said anything. Crowley hadn’t, either. It was no good pressuring Aziraphale. He needed to wait for the angel to come to him and start the conversation. Except he didn’t, and it had been three days. Crowley had forgotten how slow things used to move between them. It could be years before Aziraphale called him again. It could be decades. Crowley was willing to wait another six thousand years for Aziraphale, but that didn’t mean every second of it wouldn’t hurt.

So, he drank. It would only be the one time, he promised himself. He couldn’t be expected to deal with these circumstances entirely without alcohol. Even in the fourteenth century, he’d had alcohol.

What did not occur to him was that drunk Crowley was a good deal harder to control than sober Crowley, and had much worse ideas. And that was saying something.

“Heyyy, ‘Ziraphale,” he slurred, when Aziraphale opened the bookshop door at three in the morning, looking very surprised indeed. “You remember anything yet?”

“Ah, no, Crowley.” Aziraphale gave him a tired look. “Are you drunk?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Nope,” he lied, and tripped over nothing and had to grab onto the doorframe. “Pinin…inacle of sobriety.” He gave a sheepish smile. “Let me in?”

Azirpahale rubbed his forehead and stepped aside to admit him. Crowley hadn’t actually expected that. He hadn’t planned this far ahead. Actually, he hadn’t planned at all.

He walked inside and flopped onto the sofa. “Coffee?” he offered Aziraphale, waving a particular tartan thermos at him. He had retrieved it from the flat above the bookshop and then kept in the passenger’s seat of the Bentley so he could look at it and agonize about whether or not to show up with it on the angel’s doorstep and see if it reminded him of anything. Apparently, only drunk Crowley had that kind of courage and/or stupidity.

“Er, no thank you,” said Aziraphale. “Why did you bring coffee?”

“Why didn’t you?” Crowley shot back. “Jussst, wanted to enjoy some nice hot coffee, in this nice thermos, y’know…” He waved it around a few more times in case that would help. It didn’t seem to. “You gave me this,” he reminded Aziraphale.

“I assumed,” said Aziraphale. “I can’t imagine you would ever willingly purchase something tartan. Crowley, why are you here?”

“Wanted t’ see you,” he said truthfully, giving up on the thermos. “S’good to see you. You’re so pretty.”

“Er—”

“Pretty irritating,” Crowley finished, and laughed loudly while Aziraphale gave him an annoyed look. “But, no, you’re beautiful, angel.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Crowley, could you _please_ sober up? It’s very difficult to talk to you like this.”

“F’r you, maybe,” Crowley slurred. He opened the thermos, thinking it might have more alcohol in it, but it was empty. He tossed it away. “Lots easier f’r me.”

“Clearly.”

“You should get drunk, too,” said Crowley, trying to straighten and nearly falling off the sofa in the process. “Easier f’r both of us, then.”

“I’m not going to do that,” said Aziraphale. “How did you even—Please tell me you didn’t drive here like this.”

“Nah,” said Crowley. “Was in the area. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

“If you want me not to worry about you, you’ll have to refrain from showing up on my doorstep in this kind of state,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Perhaps I ought to take you home.”

“I _am_ home.”

“I mean—” Aziraphale sighed. “Where are you staying?”

“Little place across the street,” said Crowley, waving his hand in that general direction. “Sometimes there’s Queen playing. Only the sad ones, though.”

“Why are there sad queens in your—” Aziraphale shook his head in confusion. “Is this another modern thing I don’t understand?”

“D’you remember my car?” Crowley asked suddenly. He sat up. “My Bentley, d’you remember her?”

“Her? It’s a car,” said Aziraphale. “Yes, I do recall—”

“The books,” Crowley interrupted. “In the church. Remember those?”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. He looked at the floor.

“You do,” said Crowley, overjoyed. “You do remember. You still love me!”

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale’s voice broke. “You are very drunk. I don’t think you should be here.”

“You do love me, angel,” he said, grinning. “C’mon, admit it. You married me, for Chrissakes.”

“I’m taking you home,” Aziraphale cried, jumping to his feet. “Can you walk?”

“Course I can—” Crowley fell onto the ground. “—walk,” he finished. “Ow.”

“Come on, get up.” Aziraphale pulled him up by the arms and slung one of Crowley’s arms around his shoulder. “You are making this very difficult for me, you know,” he panted, walking Crowley over to the door.

Crowley was distracted by how nice it was to be close to Aziraphale again. “Soft,” he said unhelpfully, and nuzzled his face into Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale yelped and almost dropped him. “C-Crowley—I must ask you to _please_ refrain from such behavior.

“Why? Y’like it.”

“I—That—That is entirely beside the point. Could you at least _try_ to control yourself—” Aziraphale shot a glance at the thoroughly plastered demon, and sighed. “What am I saying, of course you can’t. This place across the street, where is it? Directly across, there’s only the tailor and that little tea shop.”

“Parked right in front of ‘em.”

“You said you didn’t drive—Oh.” Azirpahale stopped. “Have you been sleeping in your car?”

“Nahh.” Crowley waved his hand. “Haven’t been sleeping much at all.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale turned around and started to walk him back inside. “I suppose you can stay here tonight. But please, sober up first.”

“Nope,” said Crowley. “Perfectly happy being drunk.”

“Fine, but don’t blame me when you wake up with a dreadful hangover.” He stopped in front of the stairwell and groaned. “How are we going to get you up the stairs?”

“M’ good at stairs,” said Crowley. “M’a snake. Watch.” He let go of Aziraphale and fell facefirst into the stairs. “Ow,” he whined. “They’re all pokey.”

“How did you even manage to walk here in the first place?” Aziraphale pulled him up again. “I suppose the sofa will serve for the time being.”

“Aw,” said Crowley. “I miss my bed.”

“Well, you’re welcome to use it if you can manage to reach the second floor.”

Crowley scowled up at the unfairly-tall stairs. “Pah. Fine. Like the sofa better anyway.”

Aziraphale plopped him down on the sofa. “I will get you some water,” he said, going into the kitchen. “Though I would much prefer it if you’d just sober up.”

“Nope,” Crowley said again.

Aziraphale handed him a glass, and he drank from it. Disappointingly, it was not alcohol. He kept drinking just in case it might turn into some.

“Now, please try to get some rest,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll turn out the lights in here. Okay?”

“’Kay,” said Crowley, burrowing into the sofa cushions and throw pillows. The bookshop sofa had always been so soft. Like Aziraphale. “Thanksss,” he hissed into the pillows, as the angel pulled a blanket over him. “Y’always take good care of me.”

“Well, you don’t make it easy.”

“Mm.” Now that Crowley was actually lying on something comfortable, his consciousness was fading fast. “Night, angel,” he murmured. “Love you.”

“I—” Aziraphale sighed and turned off the lights. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

Aziraphale spent the rest of the night trying not to fall apart in the flat upstairs. Poor Crowley, spending three days in the Bentley parked outside…He would have expected the demon to at least get himself a hotel. When he had said he wasn’t going to go far, Aziraphale hadn’t realized that was what he had meant.

Crowley was so, so firmly convinced of everything he’d told Aziraphale. He called the bookshop “home” as if it had always been that. He touched Aziraphale sometimes so casually that the angel wondered if he’d even noticed he’d done it. And now, when he was drunk, he said the nicest things without a second thought. And it was—if he was being honest with himself—actually very nice. It also made it very difficult for Aziraphale to think objectively. His emotions had been slowly settling over the past few days, but ten minutes in the company of an inebriated Crowley had thrown them straight back into turmoil. That wouldn’t do at all, especially when he was still trying to figure out what had happened over the past eighty-seven years. Crowley had told him most of it, but Crowley’s version of the truth was only one perspective. He would need more inputs if he was going to understand the true story.

So, earlier that day, he had called some of the people Adam had listed. Luckily, all of their contact information was already saved in his phone. They had all been very sorry to hear about his memory loss, and every one of them corroborated what Crowley had told him (except Shadwell, who hadn’t made a lot of sense, and seemed to be under the impression that Aziraphale was some sort of occultist). The one discrepancy was that, like Adam, most of them were convinced that Crowley and Aziraphale had already been married for years by the time they had all met.

Except for Madam Tracy, whom he called the following morning. “Oh, yes, you were quite smitten with him at the time,” she said conspiratorially, which made Aziraphale flush. He and Tracy had, he had learned, briefly shared the same head, and he didn’t like to think what sort of thoughts she might have picked up. “But no, I don’t think you were together just then. I heard maybe a year or two later that you were married. I was so pleased to hear it,” she added. “Although—Oh, dear. I suppose you’ve forgotten that too, have you?”

“I’m afraid…No, I don’t remember that,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Ooh, poor Mr. Crowley…How is he taking it?”

“He’s—” Aziraphale glanced at the stairwell, thinking of Crowley passed out on the sofa downstairs. “He’s quite well, thank you for asking.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said. “Perhaps Shadwell and I could pop by for a chat sometime. It’s been so long.”

“Yes, that, um—” Aziraphale gave a nervous laugh, realizing that he did not know at all who he was accepting an invitation from. “Once I’ve adjusted a bit, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose it must be a bit of a shock to you.” Tracy paused. “Do you think your memories will return?”

Aziraphale swallowed and put one hand on the wall for support. He didn’t know. Did he want them to? He would either find out that none of this was true, or that it was and heaven really had forsaken him. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

She made a sympathetic noise. “I’m so terribly sorry,” she said. “But at least you’ve got your Mr. Crowley there to help fill in the gaps. Right?”

Well, he had, until he had driven Crowley out of his own home. Perhaps that had been hasty of him. This was all taking a terrible toll on him, too, even if he tried not to show it.

“Well, thank you, Madam Tracy,” he said. “I hope we’ll talk again sometime.”

“I’m sure we will, Mr. Fell. You tell Mr. Crowley I said hello.”

“I will. Goodbye.”

He hung up and let out a deep breath. Tracy’s name was the last on the list that Adam had given him. Naturally, the last person he called would be the only one who could remember an actual transition between him and Crowley not being together, and then being married. So that was one person, at least, whose story lined up with Crowley’s, and none of the rest of what he had heard contradicted it. And there was also the fact, which he had discovered last night, that Crowley knew exactly when Aziraphale had realized he was in love. He couldn’t think of any way Crowley could know that unless he had told him himself. Which meant that it must be true.

He and Crowley were married.

He drew a deep breath and steeled himself to go downstairs and check in on the demon. Hopefully he would be in a better state than he had been the previous night. That whole episode had been awfully draining. Maybe, he thought hopefully, Crowley wouldn’t even be awake yet. Or maybe he’d sleep for the next eighty years. You never knew, with Crowley.

He appeared to have just woken when Aziraphale came downstairs, and was still in the half-dazed state of looking around and trying to figure out where he was. His yellow eyes lit on Aziraphale as he came down, and he froze. “What happened last night?” he asked in a near-whisper.

“You came here drunk,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley tried to sit up, winced, and lay back down, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Why was I drunk?”

“I assume it was because you had been drinking,” said Aziraphale dryly.

“Why’m I _here?_ ”

“I don’t know. You were not very coherent.”

Crowley rubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Sorry, Aziraphale. I’m so sorry—”

“It’s all right—”

“Shouldn’t be here.” Crowley squinted in concentration for a moment and then sat up more successfully. He looked around, grabbed his sunglasses from where they had fallen onto the floor, and shoved them onto his face. “I’ll—I’ll get out of your way—”

“Crowley, don’t be silly.” Aziraphale sat down in his chair across from the sofa. “This is your home.”

Crowley blinked. He sat very still, as if he was afraid of what might happen if he moved. “It is? You said—”

“I know what I said.” Aziraphale fidgeted and didn’t look at Crowley. “But it was, perhaps, not very considerate…” That was a terrific understatement. He swallowed and tried again. “I was terribly cruel to you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“F’course,” said Crowley quietly. “You were in shock. Not your fault.”

“Don’t make excuses for me. I know this isn’t easy for you, either.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands. “I believe you,” he said. “I want you to know that. And if you wanted to—to continue staying here—”

Crowley watched him intently. “Could I?”

“Yes, of course.”

He breathed a sigh of deep relief. “Good. That’s—Good.”

“I am still going to need some time to adjust to all of this,” said Aziraphale, just in case his invitation might be misinterpreted.

“Right,” said Crowley. “Don’t worry, I won’t get any ideas.”

Aziraphale nodded, glad that Crowley understood. His heart was beating very fast. They didn’t often talk like this. “I should probably open up the shop,” he said, getting to his feet to signal the end of the conversation. “If you would like to continue sleeping, I won’t disturb you.”

“Right,” said Crowley. “Right, yeah. Should probably get a little more rest. Th-thanks, angel.”

“There’s no need for thanks.” He was just doing what he should have done days ago. “Have a nice rest.” He went into the front of the shop, shut the door, and tried not to think about the demon—his _husband_ —sleeping in the back room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they were roommates! Oh my god they were roommates.


	4. Don't Talk to Me About the Greater Good, Sunshine

Crowley had expected things to get easier once he started living above the bookshop again. At least the bookshop did not play depressing music whenever he turned on the heater, and had enough space to walk around in, and comfortable sleeping arrangements. It also had food, and drinks, and all his stuff in it, not to mention Aziraphale, so objectively it was a far superior lodging to the Bentley.

He just hadn’t considered how emotionally exhausting it was to be around Aziraphale this much now. He had to watch himself so much more carefully than he was used to. He was getting better at keeping physical distance between them, but there were other things he hadn’t thought about. One morning he got up early to make breakfast, and Aziraphale, who had been lost in some book as usual, came into the kitchen looking puzzled at all the noise he was making. “Morning, angel,” Crowley greeted him cheerfully. “French toast?”

Aziraphale just stared down at the plate Crowley offered him. “You…made breakfast?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, and began to see the issue. That was a little more domestic than Aziraphale was used to. “S-should I not have…?”

“No, it’s alright.” Aziraphale took the plate and sat down to eat. “Thank you.”

The entire time he ate, he had an expression on his face like he was trying to solve a very difficult mathematical equation. Crowley did not make breakfast again.

On the bright side, Aziraphale’s memory loss meant that Crowley got to reintroduce him to all his favorite restaurants. That was easier for the angel. They had gone out for dinner dozens of times within Aziraphale’s memory, so the experience was both familiar and pleasant, and watching Aziraphale experience his favorite foods for the first time all over again was really something special. Crowley ordered his usual for him each time, until one day, halfway through doing so, he noticed a little crease between Aziraphale’s eyebrows. “O-or maybe you want something else?” he stuttered, mentally kicking himself. It was probably jarring for Aziraphale to be reminded of how well Crowley knew him now. He should be more careful.

Aziraphale shook his head and said, “No, the lamb chops are clearly the best thing on the menu,” but the discomfort had been there. Crowley made certain not to make the same mistake in the future.

Aziraphale was still not wearing the ring. Which made sense. It would be odd if he wore a ring for a marriage that he did not remember agreeing to. It still hurt a little bit every time Crowley looked at his bare hand, but he could hardly blame the angel for that. Aziraphale was coming around, slowly. Allowing Crowley to move back in had been a huge step, even if it was more out of pity than anything else. This couldn’t be easy for him. Crowley just wished there was something he could do besides stay out of his way.

He didn’t even sleep in his own bed anymore. The issue wasn’t that he and Aziraphale used to share it, since the angel always just sat up and read all night, which he now did downstairs. But Crowley had been lazing in bed when Gabriel first came by, so he wouldn’t be of much more use if the archangel made a second visit while he slept. Instead, at night, he curled up in front of the door with a baseball bat in his hand. After a few days of this, he went to his usual spot and found that Aziraphale had built a little nest for him there out of sofa cushions and blankets. “I just want you to be comfortable,” he said, almost apologetically.

_I love you,_ Crowley had almost said. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded. “R-right. Thanks.”

The plants had grown complacent in his brief absence, and it took a few days to put the Fear of Crowley back into them. It had given Aziraphale a bit of a shock the first time he raised his voice in the empty back room. He’d poked his head in to interrupt and ask, “Crowley, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“Gardening,” he said, pointing at the plant as if that should have been obvious, and then remembered that, oh, right, Aziraphale didn’t remember his plants. He kept discovering new little things Aziraphale didn’t remember. So that was fun.

Sometimes, when he yelled at the plants, he caught himself getting a little too worked up and had to take a moment to calm down. He was dealing with a lot, but this shouldn’t be his outlet, not when Aziraphale could hear him the next room over. So instead, when he needed a break, he would take the Bentley out and scream-sing along to whatever the car had picked out to depress him this time. He never went far, though, and never for too long. He couldn’t risk leaving Aziraphale alone for long.

But it was getting harder and harder to be around him, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. More and more often, he would make an excuse to leave the shop and then go sit in the Bentley outside for large chunks of the day. When he came home in the evening and went to sleep in front of the door, he barely had to interact with Aziraphale. Easier for both of them that way.

He still had no idea how to get Aziraphale’s memories back. He called Anathema, just in case she could help, but the witch was just as much at a loss as he was. “Maybe you could summon another angel to fix it?”

Summoning an angel and giving them permission to mess with Aziraphale’s head was a patently terrible idea. “Maybe,” said Crowley gingerly.

If Aziraphale’s memories were still in his head at all, they were locked up tight. Nothing Crowley tried brought back any recollection. He showed Aziraphale how to access the photos on his phone, thinking that, even if they couldn’t jog his memory, the photos might at least help fill in the gaps, but he’d only looked through a few before he started to fidget anxiously and closed the app. Discussing anything since the apocalypse seemed to make him uncomfortable.

He had said he believed Crowley. Did that mean he believed everything? Did he believe what Crowley had said about heaven? About their relationship? Did he believe, now, that Crowley loved him?

He still wasn’t wearing the ring. Neither of them talked about it.

It was…nice, living with Crowley. Somehow, Aziraphale had not been prepared for that. He knew he would be seeing a lot more of the demon, but he hadn’t actually thought about what that would mean. Apparently, it meant seeing the demon half-asleep when he fixed his coffee in the morning, and curled up peacefully (or, as peacefully as he could be with a baseball bat within reach) at night on the sofa cushions in front of the door. It meant being startled out of a book by a “hey, angel,” and almost-daily meals at restaurants Crowley already knew he would love. It was a lot, certainly, but maybe not in a bad way. He liked having Crowley around.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t still stressful. He wasn’t ready to talk about his feelings just yet, but they were getting harder to avoid. Crowley was getting harder to avoid. It was a strange balancing act, trying not to upset the demon, but also trying not to make his feelings too clear in case it led somewhere he wasn’t comfortable with. True to his word, as always, Crowley had given Aziraphale space. He stayed out of the bookshop for large parts of the day, which, combined with the times he was asleep, gave Aziraphale plenty of time alone to process. Naturally, he used most of that time reading so he wouldn’t have to think about any of it.

Every so often, something would remind him that they had been married, and he would almost break down. Crowley had made breakfast one morning. Aziraphale hadn’t even considered that possibility. It was lovely, except that it gave him feelings that he didn’t know what to do with. Crowley seemed to pick that up and hadn’t done it again, which was…well, disappointing wasn’t the right word, exactly. Or was it?

Once, Crowley showed him a collection of photographs on his phone, and he had looked at a few before deciding he didn’t want Crowley right beside him as he dealt with the emotional onslaught it was sure to bring. He pulled up the photos again later, while Crowley slept, and nearly sobbed at one of him and Crowley flanking a dark-haired boy in a graduation robe. That must be Warlock, their godson, whom they had essentially co-parented, and whom Aziraphale had no memory of. He and Crowley looked so proud of him.

He took out the wedding ring sometimes when Crowley wasn’t around, just to look at it. They had really gotten married. He had seen the photos himself. But—how? They were supposed to be enemies. What had gotten into them, that they had thought it was a good idea for an angel and a demon to get married? And how had they lived like this for so long?

There was one piece that still didn’t quite fit, and that was what Crowley had told him about heaven. Everyone he had called confirmed that he called himself a retired angel, but that didn’t make any sense. Being an angel wasn’t just some job he could quit with two weeks’ notice, it was his whole purpose in life. It might make sense for Crowley—leaving hell was unlikely to make anyone feel any pain—but for him? His purpose was noble. He was an executor of the Divine Plan, and he had always taken pride in that. Surely he wouldn’t just stop.

And he certainly couldn’t accept that heaven had abandoned humanity to destruction. Crowley might believe that, but Crowley had his own hangups about heaven. He must be mistaken. So then why, and how, had Aziraphale quit?

He didn’t like to question it, so he didn’t. And because he didn’t understand what had happened with heaven, he couldn’t tell Crowley how he felt, in case he was still technically on their payroll and his boss—former boss?—found out. Perhaps that had already happened. Perhaps that was why Gabriel had come to wipe his memories in the first place (if he really had, which was also difficult to believe). If that was the case, Aziraphale would rather spend the rest of his life in uncomfortable, silent proximity to Crowley than make the same mistake again.

Aziraphale was reorganizing the poetry section when the commotion started outside. There was a loud shout, and then an impact, and then somebody started yelling. It sounded like a familiar someone. “Oh, dear—” Aziraphale dropped his books and ran to the door.

“—Rip your fucking wings off,” Crowley was screaming, standing over Gabriel with a baseball bat shaking in his grip. The archangel’s nose was bleeding. “You bastards controlled him his whole life. What more could you possibly want from him?”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, his breath shallow. This was like a scene out of a nightmare. Seeing Gabriel and Crowley in the same place—They shouldn’t be in the same place, ever, or something terrible was going to happen—

“You broke my nose,” said Gabriel in disbelief. He looked more dazed than actually hurt as he touched his nose and then looked at his bloody hand in disbelief. “Get away from me, demon.”

“Oh, fucking make me.” Crowley pushed him down with the baseball bat. “Leave my husband _alone_. He’s done nothing in ten years!”

“He’s a traitor. His very existence is dangerous—”

“You want dangerous?” Crowley’s voice was high and hysterical. He looked completely unhinged. “I’m a demon you don’t know how to kill. I’ve barely slept well in two weeks, the love of my life doesn’t remember we’re together, and I’m about at the end of my _fucking rope_.” He raised the bat.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale wrenched himself out of his paralysis, ran towards the demon, and grabbed his arm to stop the swing. “Crowley, stop.”

Crowley fought to pull his arm free. Up close, Aziraphale saw that he was crying. “—crush your skull into the pavement and then see how self-righteous you are—”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale commanded. “Let go of the bat. This isn’t you.”

Crowley broke. He turned and fell into Aziraphale, threw his arms around the angel, and sobbed into his jacket. Aziraphale could not remember them ever touching this much before. And out here on the street, with people watching them—In front of _Gabriel_ —

It was impossible to breathe. He reached up tentatively and patted Crowley’s back to calm him. Crowley had never cried like this in Aziraphale’s memory. He never wanted Crowley to cry like this again.

“I love you,” Crowley said into his shoulder, shaking with tears.

“I know.”

“I do,” said Crowley. “More’n anything. _Anything_.”

“I know, my dear.” He took a moment to blink away tears and gently reached over his own shoulder until his fingers touched cold metal. “Please give me the bat, Crowley.”

Crowley’s grip was weak now. Aziraphale took the bat from him easily, but Crowley did not let go of him. Aziraphale kept one arm around him, in case that might help.

Over Crowley’s shoulder, he saw Gabriel pick himself up and wipe the blood from his nose. “You don’t really believe this, do you, Aziraphale?” said the archangel, waving at Crowley in disgust. “This creature has turned you away from the light. I am trying to _save_ you.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. His voice seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere in his throat and dug in its claws so it wouldn’t have to come out.

“If this really was…” Gabriel had trouble saying the next word. “… _love_ , then wouldn’t he want that for you?”

No—no, Gabriel had gotten it wrong. Crowley had misjudged heaven’s intentions, that was all. This was all a big misunderstanding. Of course Gabriel only wanted to help him—But hadn’t Crowley said something about an execution, and hadn’t Aziraphale heard Gabriel call him a traitor just now—?

“You are being given a second chance,” said Gabriel. “Let me purge your mind of this demon’s influence, and all your…” he waved at Crowley with a shudder. “…mistakes, will be forgiven. All water under the bridge. A clean slate.” He looked at Aziraphale with an approximation of paternal warmth. “You can come home, Aziraphale.”

_Home._ It was such a nice word. He breathed it in and let it roll around inside his brain. And all he had to do—All he had to do was forget Crowley.

Crowley’s hold on Aziraphale tightened. He made a tiny noise that sounded like “please.”

“A…c-clean slate,” Aziraphale repeated in a trembling voice.

“The cleanest.” Gabriel took a step forward. “It’s for your own good, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale drew a slow, shaky breath. “Is that what you said,” he asked, “when you tried to have me executed?”

Gabriel didn’t deny it. He spread his hands and gave Aziraphale a half-apologetic smile that said, _you know how it is,_ or, _what, that little mix-up?_ or, _you’re not still upset about that, are you?_

So it was true. Crowley was right. Heaven had never cared about him, had perhaps never cared about anyone but themselves. He had _believed_ in them, and they had manipulated him, cowed him with guilt and shame, tried to control his every thought—Rage simmered in his chest and came to a boil. They had tried to take him from Crowley. He had never felt this angry before.

“Leave us,” he said to Gabriel, and something of the divine leaked into his voice. His true form was coming out, wings unfolding and eyes opening where there had previously been none. The shadows around them sharpened as he began to glow. He tightened his grip on the baseball bat, and, as if it wanted to fill the role better, it burst into flame. “If you disturb us again, I will not hesitate.”

Gabriel stepped backwards in shock. “Is that a threat, principality?”

“Absolutely.” It may have been a long time, but Aziraphale was still a warrior. Gabriel was a glorified mailman. And Aziraphale had so much more to fight for.

Crowley raised his head and blinked slowly. The light from Aziraphale’s true form should have blinded him. He looked straight into it, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses. “Y-you…”

Disappointed, Gabriel shook his head. “Then you’ll always be a traitor, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, I hope so.”

Gabriel blinked in surprise, which turned into a scowl. With one last judgmental look at Aziraphale, and the demon in his arms, he spun on his heel to leave.

The glow faded. Aziraphale’s wings folded neatly away into the aether, the extra eyes closed and vanished, and the fire along the baseball bat burned itself out. He snapped his fingers so that all the humans who were currently speaking in tongues around them would forget that they had seen something not meant for mortal eyes and continue about their business as usual. “Let’s go inside,” he said to Crowley gently. “You look like you could do with a cup of tea.”

Crowley detached himself from Aziraphale’s jacket and nodded. Aziraphale took his hand and led him back into the bookshop.

“What sort would you like?” Aziraphale asked, opening the cabinet where he kept his teas. “Chamomile, perhaps? I have a lovely lemon ginger, as well.”

Crowley didn’t answer. “Chamomile would be nice, I think,” Aziraphale decided. He put the kettle on, gave it a stern look so it immediately started boiling, then filled the teapot and carried it and two mugs into the back room. He set them down on the coffee table, looked at his usual armchair for a moment, and then sat by Crowley on the other end of the sofa instead.

“You,” said Crowley. He seemed to be having difficulty finishing the sentence. “Y-you…”

Aziraphale didn’t want to talk about himself right now, not when Crowley had just had a breakdown right there in the street. He had known this was hard for Crowley, but he hadn’t realized quite how much until he snapped. Had he been bottling that up this whole time? How on Earth had he managed for so long? “Crowley, are you alright?”

He made a vague noise, and then said, “Better, now that that shithead Gabriel’s gone.”

“I didn’t mean in the short term,” said Aziraphale. “You don’t seem well. Please don’t try to make light of this.”

Crowley shook his head and slumped back against the sofa. “What d’you want me to say?” His voice cracked. “Am I _alright?_ My husband doesn’t remember falling in love with me.”

Aziraphale swallowed. They were probably overdue for this conversation. “I do.”

Crowley froze.

“You asked me when you were drunk,” said Aziraphale, “if I still remembered that night in the church. You saved my books. That’s one of the last things I do remember.”

Crowley pressed one hand to his mouth and looked down at the coffee table. “Thank Sssomebody for that, at least.”

His other hand was flung out on the sofa cushions between them. Aziraphale looked at it for a moment. Touching Crowley was still so new to him, but he found that it didn’t frighten him like it used to. Slowly, he reached out and laid his hand over Crowley’s. Even as Crowley jolted in slight surprise, his hand turned over to hold Aziraphale’s like it was second-nature to him. Perhaps it was.

His hand was warm. It felt nice. Aziraphale set there quietly for a moment to appreciate the sensation. “You, um…you never did tell me about those last ten years. After Armageddon.”

They never talked about anything after Armageddon. Crowley looked at him for a moment, waiting to make sure this was an invitation for him to speak. “Well, we, um.” He cleared his throat and took off his sunglasses. “We escaped getting executed by our respective sides. Switched bodies—Your idea, brilliant—so they’d think we were immune to hellfire and holy water. Scared them all shitless, so they let us go and left us alone. At that point, it was sort of natural for us to be together. Nothing keeping us apart anymore.”

Aziraphale nodded for him to go on.

“I moved in not long after. I told you this place burned—burned down, but, um, Adam set it back to rights, and I wanted to be here. Make sure it was still here. And you were still here.” He paused. “We got married a year later. It was a small thing. Just us two. Nobody even questioned it, they all thought we’d been married for years.”

Aziraphale didn’t know if the feeling in his chest was joy at hearing all this or sadness that he couldn’t remember. “How did you ask?”

“You did.” Crowley gave a small laugh. “You just looked over the dinner table one day and said, ‘What if we got married?’”

“Did I?” Aziraphale would have expected Crowley to ask first. He seemed much more the romantic sort. “And what did you say?”

“Well, I said, ‘Is that seriously how you’re gonna propose?’ Then you said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, were you expecting a big production?’ and I said, ‘No, angel, I was _planning_ a big production—’ I was, there were doves involved, and a marching band—That’s not important—You said, ‘How terribly rude of me, I suppose I’ll have to wait and see that first, then,’ and I pointed out that that was stupid, and I didn’t want to be _not_ married to you any longer than I had to, so—”

Aziraphale was laughing. Yes, that all sounded about right. They had never been the best-coordinated pair.

When he looked up, Crowley was giving him a soft smile. “So then we got the rings, and, y’know, did the thing. Been married ever since.”

“Ever since,” Aziraphale repeated. “How long?”

“Nine years.”

In the grand scheme of things, that was nothing. A blink of an eye. But that was nine years more than he’d ever dreamed he’d have with Crowley.

“Good years,” Crowley said quietly. “All of them.”

Aziraphale swallowed, looking down. A lump formed in his throat. “I’m very sorry to have missed them.”

They sat there in silence for a moment. “I don’t know how to bring them back,” Crowley admitted in a hoarse voice. “I said I’d find a way, but it’s been weeks, and I’ve got nothing. No ideas. Nobody to ask. Nothing I’ve tried has worked, and I…I don’t know what to do.” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale’s forehead creased as something came back to him. Not something he had lost, but something recent, from that first terrible day when he had been so mean to Crowley. “You did have an idea,” he said. “You suggested miracling them back once. Remember?”

Crowley’s yellow eyes widened, and he sat up straight. He seemed to have forgotten as well, until now. “You’d let me try that?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you then. I do now.”

Crowley drew a shuddering breath and let it out. “Right. Okay.” Letting go of Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley leaned forward and set his fingertips lightly at Aziraphale’s temples. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” he said, almost in a whisper. “If I botch this—”

“I would like you to try, please.” Crowley wouldn’t mess it up. Crowley was more careful with him than anyone.

He nodded and shut his eyes, and Aziraphale had the very peculiar sensation of someone else sifting through his head. “Just looking around,” Crowley muttered. “Not sure of the organizational system in there. If it’s anything like the bookshop, I’m not sure how I’ll find anything.”

“Not finding things in the shop is the whole idea,” said Aziraphale, trying not to move. The experience was rather invasive, and more than a little uncomfortable. But it was Crowley. He trusted Crowley. If this got his memories of them back, he would do whatever it took.

“Okay, I’m gonna try something.” Crowley opened his eyes. “You ready?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Yes.” He had never felt so sure of anything, except possibly when he had stood in the rubble of the church looking down at the bag of books Crowley had handed him. “I love you.”

Crowley swallowed, nodded, and shut his eyes again. A little jolt went through his fingertips into Aziraphale’s temples. And then—

Images flooded back to him. Snatches at first—the sound of a car engine, or the clink of silverware on a plate, or the smell of smoke—and then whole memories, falling into place too fast for him to process. Rumors of Crowley’s holy water heist—The Metatron’s head in the back of the bookshop—A boy (Warlock, that was Warlock) gathering daisies and watching, enthralled, as Crowley taught him to weave them together—Blue paint flying off a no-longer-ruined jacket—Crowley covered in flour, instructing a ball of dough to rise better, not realizing the angel was behind him—A tartan thermos, suddenly out of his hands—Crowley looking radiant in a bridal gown—Adam and his friends laughing in their graduation robes— Crowley walking out of a burning car like something out of a movie—Crowley, always Crowley, everywhere, Crowley—

When the stream of memories finally stopped, he gasped and fell forward onto Crowley. Crowley, who had asked to run away together, who insisted he didn’t like kids but melted every time little Warlock asked to be picked up, who drove through a wall of fire to find him and save the world they both loved. Beautiful, kind, wonderful Crowley. His husband.

“Um,” said Crowley, holding him a little awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be doing it. “So…”

Aziraphale squeezed him tight. “Thank you, dearest.”

With a sigh of relief, Crowley hugged him back. This was so much better. Now they could hold each other just like they used to, now that they both remembered what that had been like. How could Aziraphale have forgotten something as wonderful as this? This was how it was meant to be, he and Crowley, together, with nothing standing between them.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Crowley mumbled into his hair, apparently thinking along the same lines. “I missed this.” He pulled back and wiped his eyes so he could look at Aziraphale with a watery smile. “S’good to have you back, angel.”

“It’s good to be back.” Aziraphale said, and reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Back on our side.” He couldn’t hold back a smile as he pulled out the wedding ring and slid it back on. Now everything was as it should be.

Crowley started crying again at the sight. “Fuck _—fuck_ , I love you, Aziraphale. Don’t you dare forget it again.”

“I don’t think I ever did,” said Aziraphale honestly. “I love you too, my darling.”

Crowley reached for him, and this time Aziraphale didn’t flinch, but met him halfway there and sank into his arms. It was almost hard to believe that there had been a time when they hadn’t been like this. The past two weeks felt like a nightmare from which he had finally awoken.

“You really told Gabriel to fuck right off,” said Crowley, amazed. “You were spectacular.”

Aziraphale raised his head to look at him. “You _broke his nose_.”

They looked at each other for a moment and then started laughing uncontrollably. Aziraphale grabbed onto Crowley for support, and they both fell sideways across the couch. They laughed so long that Aziraphale’s stomach hurt, and he could barely breathe. When he finally managed to draw a full breath again, he didn’t know whether he was laughing or crying. He didn’t care.

“Thank you,” he said again, squeezing Crowley’s arm. “I don’t like to think what might have happened to me if it hadn’t been for you.” He didn’t only mean recently. Knowing Crowley had made him a better person long before Armageddon. He’d never be the angel he was today if they hadn’t met that day on that wall. He probably never would have had the courage to break away from heaven.

Crowley seemed to understand what he meant. He wiped his eyes and pulled Aziraphale toward him again. “Don’t think of it, then.”

Aziraphale leaned against his husband, closed his eyes, and didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I was so close to having Aziraphale take the bat from Crowley and just start beating the absolute shit out of Gabriel himself. Then I realized that might not be the soft ending I wanted.
> 
> I know it's been rough until this chapter, but hopefully the ending makes up for all the pain earlier. The husbands are husbands again, and Gabriel has to go back to the office with a broken nose and listen to everyone's wisecracks about it, so it all worked out in the end.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3


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